


Untouchable

by Weconqueratdawn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Edgeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Mirrors, Orgasm Control, Post-Episode: s01e13 Savoureux, Sexual Fantasy, Slight Dom Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 00:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15785526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: Written for the One Stringed Melody challenge and based on this prompt:Hannibal’s all about control, and control over his orgasms is something he takes great pride in. He can go HOURS, taking himself up to the edge and then pulling back at the very last second. He’s good at it. Or at least he was - until Will Graham started turning up, dishevelled and unbidden, in Hannibal’s terribly aesthetic fantasies, and ruining all his hard work.Enjoy! :)





	Untouchable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkblot_fiend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkblot_fiend/gifts).



> Many thanks to inkblotfiend for the prompt - I really couldn't resist!
> 
> Unusually for me, this hasn't been beta'd so any mistakes are absolutely my own!

Compliments to the chef were always well-deserved.

Hannibal’s dinner that night was a solitary pleasure and the menu a fitting tribute. Fresh trout, cooked simply, as Will would have prepared it. Venison. And miniature bread pudding, the same dessert Will had inadvertently taken out of Tobias’ mouth.

All the efforts and energy of the previous few months had come to a close. The last piece had been his visit to Will’s cell, undertaken just that morning. 

It had been an enriching experience. Will’s gaze held a new quality: certainty. Hannibal rarely, if ever, had had the pleasure of being viewed with such refreshing clarity--extremely satisfying, and well worth his endeavours. 

And the picture Will had made in his cell--stripped down to his essence in the soft womb-like dark, spotlit by a window high above. It was more beautiful than theatre. The journey from innocence to experience; the hero enriched by his travels but trapped by his own erudition. A perfect tragedy, one Hannibal could enjoy whenever he wanted. All that was required was an application for a BSHCI visitor’s pass.

There was a tinge of regret, too. Hannibal wished his attempts to help Will understand himself had been able to continue uninterrupted. It had been unexpected that Will had concluded by understanding Hannibal instead. But perhaps, now that Will was, so to speak, a captive audience, Hannibal would be able to continue his work.

Compliments to the chef, indeed.

After dinner, a feeling of expectation lingered. Hannibal knew it well--it was not uncommon after a period of heightened and suspenseful emotion. Mostly, he would seek an efficient release, but tonight was different. Tonight, he would practice another art; one suited to his subtle command of circumstances.

He began with a shower; hot enough to heat the blood but short enough to remain invigorating. It would set the mood between pleasure and self-denial nicely. And the confinement of the shower stall aided the initial phase--going inwards, sifting through images, sounds, sense-memories. Ideas and ideals. No touching was required, not yet. It was enough to let the mind do its work, while the body slowly woke from its civilised state.

The next stage was clinical but necessary. Once the required level of arousal had been reached, matters could become more spontaneous. But, before then, strict rules had to adhered to. For this, Hannibal set a timer for ten minutes.

The bathroom stool took his weight; Hannibal spread his legs a little and began. A light coating of unscented lubrication to the palm and a firm grip around the shaft. It was almost boring--preparatory only--but he kept at his task. The point was not finding release but in deferring it, and then to continue doing so with ever increasing amounts of control. The body was a wonderful thing to have, but mastery of it was more wonderful still.

His erection thickened, becoming a pleasing weight against his palm. The glans grew swollen and shiny, sliding free of the confines of the foreskin with each careful stroke. He avoided touching them entirely and noted his increasing urge to climax. Hannibal ignored it, retaining only enough contact to sustain the desire, then finally took his hand away. When he shut off the timer, there were four seconds left to spare.

Hannibal stood, pleased with himself, and finished drying off. The effect he’d attained was perfect; blood humming, a warm slither of heat simmering beneath the skin. Just the right amount of arousal--ready to begin properly. 

In the dressing room, Hannibal considered his clothing options. The closet containing sleepwear had plenty of choice: cotton satin pyjamas, soft jersey undershirts and pants, luxuriously thick towelling robes. Or nothing at all; sheets on bare skin was a decadent sensation. But Hannibal’s hand paused over silk--a kimono-style dressing gown--and instantly made its choice.

He belted the dressing gown loosely--enough to cover and contain his slow-waning hardness--and sat on the end of the bed, with his sketchbook. His focus shifted easily away from the body and onto the page. The subject was a familiar favourite--a downriver view of the Ponte Vecchio--which allowed his thoughts to relax and created space for detached appreciation of his stimulated senses.

The sound of pencil on paper was a meditative one. Hannibal let his mind drift over memories of the Santa Croce frescoes and crowds viewing the wax specimens at La Specola. In the midst of them appeared Will, scowling-- _tasteless_ \--before melting back into the throng.

Hannibal followed him, pushing effortlessly through the sea of blank faces. Outside the museum, mellow Florentine paving stones became packed earth, frozen by a hard winter. Hannibal paused and looked across the fields to a house lit up like a small boat at sea. Will would be inside, preparing to face another night’s dreams.

He would be in his underwear--cotton briefs and a t-shirt, stretched a little too tight around his chest. It was a vision reminiscent of motel breakfasts, and in it Will’s physicality was a persistent detail. He was much stronger, more physically capable, than the professorial figure he presented to his classroom. Most men preferred to showcase their strength, to heighten or fake what they lacked with their clothing. Will did the opposite. Only at home, at work on some menial, masculine task--or in the vulnerable state of sleep--did he shed his concealing layers.

It was a shame Hannibal never got to see him use that strength. He would have been good in a fight; he possessed a scrappy nervousness which suggested vicious and uncultivated instincts.

The Ponte Vecchio scene was finished; there was nothing else to add. Hannibal set aside the sketchbook and re-sharpened his pencil, wondering if other, newer places should join his repertoire. The house in Wolf Trap, for instance. Perhaps the Hobbs’ house, too.

But it was time to return to the principle exercise of the evening. Hannibal stood, stretched, and lay down in the centre of the bed. He checked his reflection--the cant of the mirror on the wall opposite was placed just so. He parted the dark blue robe and his mirror-self did the same, exposing a pale slit of torso and the slack weight of his penis, resting against his thigh.

There was to be no touching at first, only watching and thinking. And it was Will, again, that came swimming up from his subconscious depths. Considering the day’s activities, it was not unexpected he should feature so strongly. In recent weeks, Hannibal had invested in him plenty of energy and it was natural the sexual imagination should pluck him out as a subject. Natural, and extremely opportune.

A prosaic profiler would assume what excited him about Will was control--the way Will had been changed and finally caged by Hannibal’s hand. The thought was indeed a satisfying one but the pleasure was not sexual. It was akin to solving a puzzle, lacking in the necessary sensuality. 

The unique beauty of Will’s suffering did have a certain aesthetic appeal. But sensuality and Will were fundamentally at odds. He would reject undeserved pleasure out of hand and was even hostile to it--there were few pleasures Will felt he deserved. It was a pity; he would have had a great capacity for experiencing it, if only he’d allowed himself the opportunity.

Hannibal regretted not having him for dinner more often; just the two of them, a purely social meeting of two close friends. Perhaps how things could have developed, if matters had turned out differently. Hannibal would have shared new intimacies with him--memories of previous lives, fondly remembered dishes. He would watch Will eat--carefully, with perception and discernment--and know himself seen. It would have been new, and exciting.

The image of an ortolan, flambéed in cognac, appeared between Will’s fingers. It was lifted to his mouth and then eaten whole. Hannibal watched the shape of his lips, the working of his throat; an initiation he would have been pleased to witness. 

Hannibal deepened his breathing while he considered where that might have led. His erection had returned; he grasped it lightly but kept his breath slow and even. But this Will was a ghostly projection and couldn’t be sustained. He passed through the rooms of Hannibal’s home, shadowy and uncertain, and dissolved halfway through undressing in his bedroom. Though an attractive prospect, the vision had too much in common with a casual encounter. And nothing at all which was casual had passed between them.

Instead Hannibal focused on the mirror, on his fingers moving slowly over his length. His arousal was quicker to peak this time--he pulled away just as the edge approached, and lay, heart beating regularly, pondering the addition of prostate stimulation. He decided against it, at least for now. Perhaps during a later round.

After a short spell of relaxation, the process was repeated again. A few sure, soft touches and his arousal built back up, like a great rolling wave. The challenge was to increase its height and breadth, without letting it crest. With practice and the application of correct technique, it was possible to last for hours this way. Or one could experience climax without ejaculating at all.

This time, it took a lot longer; at least twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, of slow riding pleasure. Its swell was gradual, building into a deep raw need as the body’s reproductive instincts gained ascendancy. When they became too great, Hannibal simply flipped a switch--a prolonged squeezing of the pelvic floor muscles--and the risk of ejaculation subsided.

Hannibal went back to his sketching. Will’s house was now his subject, seen from the outside. He placed the light shining from within it carefully, imagining the source to be the lamp beside Will’s bed. There Will slept, rumpled and dishevelled, a storm-tossed sailor amidst the ocean of his dreams. The lamplight fell obliquely, softly, over his parted lips and sweat-sheened forehead. The air smelt sickly-sweet and bitter; fever and fear and something else underneath, something masked and waiting to be uncovered.

Hannibal paused. In addition to Will’s house, the page now contained a half-finished sketch of Will himself. His t-shirt was rucked up in sleep, there was an arm over his head, bicep clearly defined by the slanting light. His head was tipped back; without context, he could almost be at his climax.

He put the pencil down and closed the book. His arousal level had not subsided--if anything it had increased. It was time for another kind of stimulation.

Hannibal stood, not bothering to close his robe. His penis swayed proudly with each step; a touch uncomfortable but still easily ignored. From a drawer he fetched a smooth metal anal plug, bulbous and weighty at one end and culminating in a ring at the other. Lubrication was to be found in the bathroom--in there, with a foot upon the stool, Hannibal inserted it with little effort. Then he returned to the bed and lay upon his stomach.

It was precisely the right size and shape to nudge against his prostate but, if he remained still--leaving aside the sensation of being internally filled--there was no real stimulation to speak of. Similarly his penis, trapped between his stomach and the bed, received only a pleasant pressure. Hannibal lay quietly unmoving. The plug’s weight pressed slowly down and the urgency of his penis seemed to strain upwards. The two opposing forces met somewhere in the middle, at his core.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. His heart beat strongly, a little fast, and reverberated out along his limbs in waves. Images and abstractions came to him, whispers and ill-formed thoughts. Nothing specific. He exhaled slowly and let go of the need to find sense where there was none. 

But into the void stepped Will. He pulled back the bedclothes and climbed into bed as if for sleep, but did not close his eyes. This time he knew Hannibal was watching and he watched right back. Hannibal took a breath. Will’s eyes held many things, similar emotions to the ones he’d witnessed that morning. Except here, Will need not be so cautious. His feelings blazed from him like a well-stoked furnace. And, overlying them all, was something else: challenge.

Hannibal flicked open his suit jacket with a thumb and seated himself in his office chair which appeared by Will’s bed. There was a brief silence; a standoff. Until Will, with a fleeting quirk of his lip--which could have signalled either mirth or disgust--moved his hand. Hannibal watched it slide over the blankets and slip underneath. There, it travelled down, over his chest and between his legs, where it gave a rough, lewd movement. And Will tipped back his throat and gasped--

A sound surprised Hannibal back to himself; a moan. He’d thrust himself hard against the mattress, squeezing the plug forcefully against his prostate. His breath was coming in pants, his nerves strung out and jangling. His climax was close, too close. He made himself still and his lungs to work in a slow, steady rhythm.

When his control returned Hannibal rose, wincing, to stand. The plug’s weight shifted again, sliding and pressing, worsening as he moved. Taking it out would feel like a concession and Hannibal frowned, displeased. He had more skill than this; his mind did not get the better of him.

Thoughts of Will continued to tug at his peripheries. It had seemed a harmless exercise when he began but he should have realised the risk: Will had the capacity to surprise. Hannibal could still feel him, crouched in a dark corner of his mind, waiting to ambush. 

What would Will do to him if he had the chance?

There was a lurch, then, of lust which travelled like fire. Hannibal hadn’t moved a muscle, and yet… A bead of pre-ejaculate had been wrung from him. He watched it slip down the rounded tip of his erect cock and relented. No plug; it would be just him and his body. And Will. Hannibal would master this alone.

He returned to the bathroom, a touch awkwardly. There he removed the plug, cleaned it, and set it aside. It was both a relief and loss, the stretched space inside him now empty. Hannibal washed his hands and went again to the bed, less relaxed and primed for a fight.

Lying before the mirror and with the robe falling open, Hannibal checked his reflection. It was what Will would see, if he were here. 

What _would_ Will do?

The thought was sudden, but serious. If Hannibal could free him from his cell for one night, what then? What possibilities might lay before them? The problem occupied his mind and lessened his arousal, and Hannibal pursued it with interest. A new future opened up; one where he might continue to explore Will’s friendship and his freshly-exposed potential.

What would Hannibal _want_ him to do? And how could Will be influenced into doing it?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Will, standing by the door. A shadow hid much of him but at his sides his hands flexed with unconscious intention. He was wearing the prison jumpsuit and soft-soled sneakers, and would make no sound if he came closer. But he didn’t; he remained where he was, watching.

Hannibal considered the picture he presented to Will, the mirror helpfully providing an outsider’s perspective. His body was well-formed and pleasing to the eye, with defined muscle but not enough of it to appear threatening. His cock was beginning to strain again; rigid, veins standing visible, the glans emerging from the foreskin, deeply flushed and wet. Many would be tempted.

But not Will. He wanted revenge, probably violence. For him, lust would not sit easily alongside those desires.

And his prior knowledge of Hannibal would inform his reactions; to see Hannibal this way would be a shock, unexpected. Their friendship had been intimate, but chaste. Will may have stumbled into his clutches differently, in another universe, but not in this one.

And yet, the thing which Hannibal saw in Will’s eyes, glinting darkly from the shadows, was not shock. Or surprise. It was satisfaction. Hannibal had, in displaying himself, given Will an opportunity. One which he would, no doubt, use with uncommon cunning.

Will crossed his arms and leant back against the wall. Half his face shifted out of darkness; there was a crooked smirk on his lips and malice in his expression.

“Go on then,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”

Hannibal blinked. Will was not supposed to speak. He was supposed to watch, silently. Maybe touch himself, too, though that had not been decided yet.

He shook his head, partly a response to this imaginary Will, partly to clear it and reset.

“But that’s not the point, is it?” Will said. “You want to prove something to yourself--how clever and untouchable you are. Just like when you came to see me today.”

Hannibal frowned, perplexed. “I visited you today because you are my friend,” he said, sitting up a little. “I want to stand by you.”

Will tipped his head back against the wall and stifled a rough laugh. “Stand by me,” he said. “Yes. I see.”

“It is true,” Hannibal said. “I have no plans to abandon you.”

“For what aim?” Will took a step closer, away from the wall. And then another. “What do you want from me?”

The light fell upon him freely; he looked smaller and more fragile in his prison clothing than Hannibal remembered. But not diminished; the hunted look had left him. Will was no longer a man living in fear--and a man without fear could do powerful things.

Will was close. He bent over Hannibal and repeated his question. “What do you want from me?”

Hannibal let him loom overhead. “I want to help you,” he said. “I want to be your friend, as well as I know how.”

Will snorted and drew back. His eyes raked Hannibal’s naked form, lip curled. “Jerking off to the thought of me behind bars? Is that what you call friendship?”

His gaze shifted pointedly to Hannibal’s fist, now wrapped around his cock. A wet, slick, rhythmic sound filled the pause. Hannibal squeezed his eyes shut but Will’s voice kept coming regardless. 

“I don’t think you know what you want from me,” he said. 

Hannibal felt the mattress dip either side of his shoulders; Will was leaning over him, caging him with his arms. His breath ghosted over Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal bit back a groan. Tension was flooding his muscles; somewhere, like light at the end of a tunnel, orgasm approached. And, just before it was reached, so did the exhilaration of his bodily control.

“You haven’t the faintest idea,” said Will.

His voice was only a whisper but Hannibal was caught by an unknown thrill. Will was a threat and a promise and a lot more besides. He decided to open his eyes and look upon him, and then he would end this.

When he wrenched them open he saw Will’s face, beautiful in the soft light, and near to his own. Every curves and line was expressive. Exquisite. His eyes pinned Hannibal like a mounted butterfly; he was seen, exposed, flayed open to his core.

Will’s mouth was moving. Hannibal watched his lips form words, gleefully sardonic ones.

“ _And doesn’t that excite you?_ ” he said, and gripped Hannibal’s wrist with hard fingers.

The movement of Hannibal’s hand was arrested. He released his cock, palm sticky with lubricant and pre-ejaculate. But Will kept hold of his wrist and bore his gaze into Hannibal’s.

Hannibal gasped; briefly struggled. Unattended, his cock jerked. He clenched down upon his pubococcygeus desperately, to hold back his climax. But to no avail; it was too late. Will smirked as hot fluid dribbled down his shaft to pool on his belly. When his cock pulsed again it was with ejaculate, shooting across his chest, almost up to his chin. 

The flooding wave of orgasm crashed noisily down and wouldn’t abate. Hannibal panted through it, a roiling tide of pleasure he could do nothing about except suffer through. His cock ached to be touched, eased, but the contractions came repeatedly, spurting thickly until he was empty. 

Will raised an eyebrow. “Told you so,” he said, and dropped Hannibal’s wrist. Then he looked at the mess on Hannibal’s stomach. “I’d offer compliments to the chef,” he said, “but the presentation leaves a lot to be desired.”

Hannibal shut his eyes and, when he opened them again, Will was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - your comments mean the world <3
> 
> [Here’s this post on tumblr - reblogs always welcomed!](https://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/177349939877/untouchable-hannigram-fic)
> 
> ~~[Here I am on tumblr.](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com)~~ I’ve left tumblr due to their policy update of December 2018 and now you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/weconqueratdawn), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/weconqueratdawn) and [dreamwidth](https://weconqueratdawn.dreamwidth.org/).


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